The Drawing

Our son has jabbed the sheet

I was writing on

and named it rain.

A tight-fisted deeply

pressed slash of black

that looks like an ancient

word–this is his lightning.


A smooth curve that bends

itself off the page

and back, knotting tightly

then fading, somewhat

like your summer ponytail,

is not the moon as

I guessed, but thunder.


Of course.

To those who are not parents

sounds still have shape.

I howl in the gash

I axed in our strongest oak.

You gasp, frightened,

from the gaping soil

where your clippers fell.


I fear, my love,

I have forgotten

how to draw the moan

my heart makes in full

satisfaction of its

love for you. Our son

is right. This page is air

in an August storm.

My heart speaks like

a lost letter rejoined

to a word whispered

late at night.


From Sulphur River Literary Review and Text and Commentary, Mandala Publications, 1993.

For my thoughts about writing this poem, follow this link.

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About lymangrant

Lyman Grant is a professor of creative writing and humanities at Austin Community College. He has work at ACC since 1978. He is the author or editor of two textbooks, two books relating to Texas literature, three volumes and a chapbook of poetry. Recently he traveled the United States for a year in a 34-foot RV 5th wheel trailer with his wife and two younger sons.